I look at Noah. “A smoking room, then,” I say, and he nods in agreement.
The look on Ruth’s face tells us that won’t work, either. “Only empty room with two beds has bad electricity,” she says.
Noah and I share an alarmed look. Bad electricity? I don’t even want to
know
what that means. “Um, we don’t want the room with bad electricity,” I say, looking at Noah, who nods. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Then best bet is 14A. Nonsmoking, one bed.”
I sigh. Maybe this is God’s way of testing my commitment to abstinence. A test I will pass with flying colors. “Fine.” I’m tired and bewildered and want to get off my feet. “We’ll take 14A.”
“Thank you for your business,” she says. “Take some brochures.”
I look over to the rack against the wall, where Noah is already looking at a pamphlet for a water park. “This looks cool,” he says.
“Noah, come on.” I grab his sleeve. “We have to go.” I turn to Ruth. “Thank you for your help.”
“Enjoy your stay,” says Ruth, going back to her romance novel.
HOME SWEET HOME
“I’m horrible with
card keys,” I say, trying to make the little green light approve our entrance into 14A.
“Here.” Noah flips the card around and guides my hand. We slide the card in and out in a split second, and we get the go-ahead. “After you,” he says, holding open the door with his free hand.
“Thanks.” I set down my duffel and look around. “This actually seems pretty nice.”
“Yeah, not bad. It’s got logo pens
and
Lucky Seven sticky notes.” He makes sure I’m looking at him. “Catch!” he says, tossing me one.
“Thanks.” I shoot him a thumbs-up and drop the notepad in my purse, still looking around. “Complimentary plastic cups and an ice bucket. Definite high class.”
“Oh, definitely. Free local calls, cable, and”—he opens the top drawer—“the Bible.”
“Can’t go wrong with that,” I say, although I’m pretty sure Noah has his Bible/Book of Mormon combination tucked into his backpack.
“I got a free map while I was checking out the brochures,” Noah says. “Did you know that we’re technically still on the Strip, although the tow-truck company took us about three hundred miles from where the car was parked?”
I fumble for the remote and flip on the TV. It’s playing an original movie on Lifetime. Sweet. I could use a little madwoman estrogen about now. “Yeah, the brochure for this place boasted about its ‘prime Strip location.’” I make the air quotes, of course. How could I not?
“Well, I think that, since we’re here, we should . . . you know, peruse our environs.”
I turn off the TV to make sure I heard him. Lifetime movies are all alike, anyway. “Peruse our environs? You’re not talking about that water park, are you? Because that’s a big thumbs-down.”
“I’m talking about checking out the Strip. The
real
Strip. The sights.”
“You want to see the sights?” Noah, who had to be coaxed into even stopping here for lunch, now wants to go gallivanting around?
“Why are you acting like it’s so crazy that I want to see the sights? We’re here; we should get out and do something. Live it up.” He makes this half-groaning sound. “Plus, I need to walk off the buffet.”
God has answered my prayers, in His often baffling but infinitely inspired way. To heal my broken heart, he has sent me the ultimate in American distractions: a night in Las Vegas. “Just let me get my shoes.”
MY FAVORITE LAS VEGAS SIGHTS
The last few
minutes we catch of the skanky/ cheesy pirate vs. siren show at TI, because I love to see how nervous it makes Noah.
The dancing fountains erupting to “Hey, Big Spender” in front of the Bellagio.
The mini-Eiffel Tower glowing in twilight as we pass Paris.
The prominent, slightly gaudy but oddly patriotic Statue of Liberty at New York-New York.
NOAH’S FAVORITE LAS VEGAS SIGHTS
The free tram
between TI and the Mirage.
The eels in the aquarium behind the front desk at the Mirage. (He says they’re amazing; I say they’re just eels.)
The animatronic statues inside Caesars Palace. The statues look like real marble, until they start moving and retelling old sea lore. (“They’re probably coated in latex,” Noah muses. Who but Noah muses about attractions in an overpriced hotel mall?)
Posing next to someone dressed up like the green M&M and getting our picture taken at—where else?—M&M’s World (photo courtesy of Noah’s camera phone).
The thing is, you see the Strip on a map—say, the free map you picked up at the Lucky Seven Motel—and it doesn’t look that long. You get in front of the big hotels and it still doesn’t seem that far. It’s like, “oh, the Bellagio is right next door to Caesars Palace, no big deal.”
Only it is a big deal. Because eventually, even though you haven’t gone all the way down the Strip yet, your feet start to give out. Also, you begin to feel dirty. Physically dirty. It’s like the cigarette smoke and taxi exhaust and tar from the construction on every corner have become part of you.
Noah and I have reached this point by the time we get to M&M’s World. Besides, it’s been hours. I think. I can’t remember what time we left, and I’m not sure what time it is now, but it was light then and now it’s dark.
“Can we take a cab back?” I ask Noah.
“Yes, please,” he says.
BAILING OUT
When we get
back, the room is coated with shadows. “Dibs on the shower!” says Noah, running to the bathroom and slamming the door.
I start rummaging through my backpack for bedtime supplies when I hear the shower turn on. My Barry shirt is beyond wrinkled and my pajama pants have a chocolate ice-cream stain running down the leg. I’ve just found my hairbrush when I hear the shower turn off. I’m watching some Chinese game show when Noah says: “Joy, were you planning on taking a shower this evening?”
I can hardly hear him through the door, so I mute the TV. “A shower? No. I’m hoping to let the Las Vegas stench seep deep into my skin so I can smell like a showgirl forever.” I hop off the bed and over to the bathroom door.
“Listen, this is no time to be cute. If you intend to take a shower tonight, we’ve got to think of something.”
“What? Um . . . can I come in?”
He opens the door, and without meaning to, I inhale, fast. He looks fantastic: he’s standing there, wearing the official T-shirt of the Haven High Boys’ Soccer Team, and the humidity makes it cling to his chest. His hair is still wet and the strands seem to separate by color: light, lighter, lightest. He smells like strong soap and shaving cream. His skin looks so soft that it makes me ache that I can’t touch it. “So what’s wrong?”
“This.” He points to the bathtub. “It won’t drain.” The tub is still three-quarters of the way full.
“The drain is clogged,” I tell him. “Should I try to fix it?” I’m not so great with the hands-on-fixing stuff, which he knows.
“What, you think I’m inept? I already tried to fix it myself.”
“I know, I know, but I have to at least give it a shot. My hygiene depends on it.” I’m thinking that in a motel as seedy as this one, there might be hair in the drain, which is totally disgusting but something I know how to fix. I take a deep breath and swallow hard to get my hormones under control.
The shower curtain is this tacky industrial-strength beige, and I push it aside, swirling my hands in the soapy water, trying not to think that it is the very water that has touched him. All of a sudden, I miss him, strong. It doesn’t make sense, of course; he’s right here, what’s to miss? Besides, all I’m doing is staring into dirty water, not reliving some great memory. So why am I overcome with the emotion I only know as missing someone?
There’s no clog, as far as I can tell. The drain’s wide open—by all logic, water should be making a hasty retreat. “Maybe we can call maintenance.”
“It’s almost midnight. I doubt maintenance is on call.”
Oh. Right. “I forgot about the time.” I can only think of one other option. “I guess we’ll have to drain it ourselves. I’ll grab the ice bucket.”
“The ice bucket! Stroke of genius!” He smacks his hand to his head. “Why didn’t I think of that?” His eyes shine with respect and something else, some deeper look I can’t place. His face has this chiseled look, like the strong curve of his jawline is sculpted from granite. Coupled with his tight abs and blond hair, he looks like a philosophy-major-turned-male-model.
“You should go get the ice bucket now,” he says.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“Let’s get an assembly line going,” says Noah. “I’ll fill the bucket and hand it to you, you dump it down the sink. Does that work?”
“Yep.”
Noah fills up quickly and when he gives me the bucket I stagger under its weight.
This amuses him. “You got that?”
“What, you think I’m weak?”
“No, not weak, just . . .”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I say, tossing the bucket at him.
Of course he catches it, no problem. “Not weak. Anything but weak.” After about two minutes he tells me the tub is almost empty.
“It’s all yours.” He holds the bathroom door open for me and smiles.
I take a cold shower.
One problem: I was in such a hurry to get in the shower, that I neglected something. Barry shirt? Check. Chocolate-stained pajama pants? Check. Clean underwear? Check. Bra? Um, no.
Usually this wouldn’t be a big deal—I’m used to sleeping without my bra on. But when I’m sharing a room with a boy, particularly Noah Talbot? I’m not so much used to that. It would be worse to go out of the bathroom in only a towel to retrieve said bra, however. I dry off and dress as quickly as I can.
The TV’s still set to the Chinese game show station when I get back into the room. Noah does not look happy. He stares at my chest, and I cross my arms instinctively. Are my nipples poking out?
“Nice,” he says.
I blush. No way he’s referring to what I think he’s referring to, because Noah Talbot talking dirty would shake my faith in all guys, everywhere, and besides—my 34A chest isn’t all that nice.
“You weren’t kidding,” he says, apparently oblivious. “You really are a Fanilow.”
I glance at my shirt, sigh at my foolishness, and smile. “Would I joke about a thing like that?” My hair is still wet so I twist it into a bun and secure it with one of those cloth ponytail-holders that don’t yank your hair. I’m definitely not up for blow-drying tonight. “Why’d you look so upset before? Chinese game show got you down?”
“Nope, nothing to do with the excellent viewing options here,” says Noah. “But other amenities are lacking. There aren’t any extra blankets in the closet.”
“So what?”
“So what am I going to do if I get cold?” Looking over, I see that he’s already laid a pillow on the floor next to the desk.
“Noah,” I say, turning my body away from him so he can only see my back, “don’t sleep on the floor. The bed’s big enough for both of us.” I know it doesn’t sound right, but I can’t think of another way to put it. I wish we had two beds, or at the very least, a king, but it is what it is.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Nothing will happen. We both know that.” I fold down the blankets on my side of the bed and hop in. The bedspread’s not too bad—a striped satin-wannabe that’s probably polyester. But the blanket underneath feels like felt.
Nothing will happen. I have to admit it makes me wonder what it’d be like if something did happen. Not that I’m a nympho or anything. I’m one hundred percent willing to wait. It’s just . . . I’ve never had the possibility as real as it is right now.
I mean, it isn’t real—not really. Noah would never let it happen, even if he wanted to. And I have no idea how close or far away he is from wanting to. He hasn’t so much as accidentally brushed against me since last night. He didn’t even let me pat him on the shoulder all buddy-buddy. “Trust me. We’ll survive this night with virtue intact. Even if we share a bed.”
Noah picks up his pillow.
“Really, I’m sick of this being an issue,” I say, trying not to watch him too carefully as he slides into the other side of the bed. “Because it’s a nonissue, right?”
“Right.” It sounds like he’s so close to me, when I know for a fact we aren’t touching.
This is what temptation feels like, having him lying here next to me, in his tight shirt and warm-ups, looking vulnerable and yes, sexy as heck.
He turns off the lamp over his head, and the room goes darker than dark. The blackout curtain on the window means business.
I can’t breathe. “It’s really no big deal, anyway,” I say, hoping the words will steady my heart rate.
“Yeah. No big deal.”
Not only can I hear him talk, I can feel him talk. I want to turn around and touch his face. I want him to touch my hair. I want to hear that he wants us to be more than friends, that he wants me. That he’s glad we went on this trip and glad Zan and I are over.
But he doesn’t. Neither one of us says anything.
Later that night, when I wake up to go to the bathroom, Noah is curled on the floor next to the desk.
DREAM SEQUENCE
I am dreaming.
It is that point in dream when you know it’s a dream. You know it’s temporary. You still don’t wake yourself.
This isn’t like my other dreams, though. There’s no story line, no setting, no characters. There’s only Noah. There’s only Noah, and he looks so good and so soft and so right. I’m not in the dream, but my body can feel him, and he feels so good and so soft and so right.
It’s the kind of dream that makes me feel like I have a thousand times more blood than I usually do, and my veins are much closer to my skin than they usually are, and the gallons of blood are racing through my surface-level veins faster than I can even breathe.